


One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer

by mithrel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartenders, Blanket Permission, Drinking, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Slash, Showing Off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have been a lot more interesting since the crowd of college kids walked into his bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jabber_Moose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabber_Moose/gifts).



Coulson breathes the blessedly smoke-free air. He's so glad they passed the smoking ban. He takes good care of himself and doesn't want to get cancer from secondhand smoke.

He makes sure everything's ready for the evening crowd–glasses clean, taps full, liqueurs lined up–then sits to wait.

It's not long before people start trickling in. Coulson takes orders, chats and makes small talk, only part of his mind having to engage with the task.

Tony Stark plops down on a stool in front of the bar. Coulson gauges his mood carefully. Thankfully, it looks like it won't be one of those nights where he'll have to cut Tony off.

"You figure out that programming problem?" he asks as he pours Tony a bourbon. He knows nothing about AIs or robotics, but it always pays to take an interest.

"Yes, thank god. But now Pepper wants me to redo the whole thing so that it's more user-friendly..."

Coulson listens to him talk, making sympathetic noises in the appropriate places.

He notices Bruce has come in and gets a glass. He pulls an MGD with not much of a head and brings it over to him.

"Evening, Bruce."

He gets a grunt in response.

Bruce had first come in after a messy divorce. Coulson learned quickly that he didn't like to talk when he drank, so unless Bruce struck up a conversation he just said hello and kept the drinks coming. He liked the quiet drinkers. They were certainly less trouble than people like Tony.

At the thought, a whole crowd of people-like-Tony burst through the door. They're laughing and clapping one of their group on the back. College kids, Coulson knows after just a cursory look. Most likely jocks; they're the ones who come in here most often.

"Yo, barkeep!" one of them says, and Coulson sighs, refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What'll you have?" The one with the fraternity pin will want beer and lots of it. The loud one who called him over will probably want whiskey, something to prove he can hold his liquor. The skinny one will want some sort of cocktail, even though it'll knock him on his ass...

They order their drinks, and Coulson notes with quiet satisfaction that he was right on all counts. There's one guy left to order, though, the one they were clapping on the back. Unlike the others, he doesn't look at all happy to be here.

"Sprite," he mumbles when Coulson looks at him, but he's shouted down by a storm of protest.

"Come on, Barton, live a little!"

"Yeah, we're celebrating!"

" _How_ many records did you break? Four? Five?"

"Two," the guy–Barton–says tiredly, as if he's sick of repeating it.

"What _ever,_ you can't have a motherfuckin' _Sprite!_ "

Barton glares at the guy, then says defiantly, "Flaming Dr. Pepper."

Coulson raises a brow, but otherwise doesn't react. "Coming right up."

He pulls a Coors for the frat guy, pours a whiskey for the loud one and mixes up a cocktail for the skinny one.

Then he pours a glass half full of Bud, layers amaretto and Bacardi into a shot glass, lights it and drops it in the bud.

Barton slams it, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He's not even out of breath when he finishes. His group cheers, and there's some scattered applause from the bar.

" _Now_ can I have my Sprite?" he says petulantly.

***

Phil opens the bar the next day without any expectations, as always. Bruce has disappeared again, and after Tony’s assistant hauled him off the floor last night he doesn’t expect to see him for awhile either. He greets a couple of other regulars, gives advice on local sights and restaurants to some tourists from Canada and consoles a paralegal who’s flunked her LSAT for the third time.

He’s surprised when he hears a familiar voice say “Cherry Coke.” He turns to see Barton sitting on a stool, sans frat-crowd.

“Didn’t expect to see you here again,” he says, as he pulls a can out from under the bar and fills a glass with ice.

Barton shrugs. “It’s a good place to be alone.”

Phil nods, handing over the drink. “Nowhere more alone than in a crowd of people.”

He doesn’t usually ask questions, but he’s curious. “So what records did you break?”

Barton snorts. “Number of consecutive bullseyes and bullseye from the farthest distance.”

Phil nods. “Shooting?”

“Archery.”

Now _that’s_ interesting. “What got you into that?”

“My mom took me to an archery show when I was a little kid. I asked for a bow for Christmas that year, and the rest is history.”

Ah. “I’m Phil Coulson,” he says, holding out a hand.

The guy shakes it, grinning. “Clint Barton.”

“You studying at NYU?”

“Yep.”

“What’s your major?”

Clint grins. “I’m majoring in Fuck-if-I-Know.”

Surprised, Phil laughs.

He has to go serve other customers after that, but he keeps an eye on Clint.

***

Clint comes back the next day, and, because Phil likes to be thorough, he’s done some research.

“So what kind of bow do you use?”

Clint gives him an odd look. “Recurve, why?”

“Compound?”

Clint scoffs, then flexes his arms. “Does it look like I use a fucking compound bow?”

Phil coughs and manages a “No.”

If Clint notices, he doesn’t comment, just starts talking about the merits and faults of each type of bow while Phil listens and makes a comment now and again.

***

A few days after that, Clint says, “So hey, I dunno if you’d be interested, and feel free to say no, but I’ve got an archery meet this weekend.”

“Oh?” Phil says, studiedly disinterested.

“And…I figured…if you wanted to go…”

Phil shrugs. “Sure.”

The way Clint grins as he gives him the time and place is worth it.

***

That Saturday, Phil goes to the arena, not quite sure what to expect.

The first two guys are strangers, and they do OK, hitting the target each time and getting a couple of bullseyes each.

Then Clint walks out.

Phil finds himself holding his breath.

He moves fluidly, raising the bow to shoulder-level, pulling it and releasing the arrow as easily as Phil would pull a beer.

The arrow moves too fast to see and embeds itself in the target.

Phil finds himself almost disappointed as he sees it lodged in the right edge of the target.

But Clint’s nocking and drawing again, and this arrow embeds itself in the bottom edge of the target, the next one in the left, and the fourth in the top, in perfect three-, six-, nine- and twelve-o’clock positions.

The fifth arrow goes in the bullseye, and the final arrow _actually splits the last down the middle._

Phil gapes, as the arena erupts with cheers. He thought they only did that with CGI, in the movies.

He finds Clint after the tournament and says, “You’re really good!”

Clint shrugs. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean really! I’ve never seen anything like that! You should try out for the Olympics!”

“Psh,” Clint says. “It’s just a hobby.”

But Phil knows it’s a goddamn lot more than a _hobby,_ both by Clint’s pleased flush and his memory of the split arrow.

***

Clint’s long since become a regular, and it’s frustrating. Phil prides himself on knowing what a person will order before they tell him, but he can’t pin Barton down. That first night, he ordered a Sprite and a flaming Dr. Pepper, then a Cherry Coke. Sometimes he orders a root beer, sometimes ice water, sometimes whiskey.

It’s driving him crazy.

“Why do you do that?” he asks as he hands Clint his drink–orange soda this time.

Clint cocks his head at him. “Do what?”

“Order a different drink every damn time!”

Clint smirks at him, maddeningly. “Variety is the spice of life.”

Phil gives up.

***

Another reason Clint’s driving him crazy is because the guy is fucking _gorgeous._ He’s got this fluid, catlike grace when he moves, his eyes fix on you like they’re looking right through you and his smile is enough to melt stone.

But just because he’s never mentioned a girlfriend (or anyone else, for that matter) in all their talks doesn’t mean anything.

And the problem with being a bartender is he can hardly ask Clint out for drinks, which is the usual first-date option. Phil’s not a big coffee-drinker, and he can’t exactly jump right into dinner.

Finally he decides, fuck it, and when Clint’s about to leave, he asks, “Hey, do you want to catch a movie sometime?”

Clint looks at him quizzically, doesn’t say anything for a moment, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “You asking me on a date, Coulson?”

“You tell me,” Phil shoots back, horribly afraid he’s blushing.

Another agonizing moment of silence, then, “Sure. Friday night OK?”

Phil nods, his knees weak.

Clint gives him a little wave. “See you then!”

As Phil sags against the countertop, he hears Clint’s parting shot, floating clearly through the buzz of late-night customers, “But I don’t put out on a first date!”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8426749) by [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




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